


Loss

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Autistic Enjolras, Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: Enjolras has been unusually distant all day. Feuilly can't decide whether to be hurt or concerned.





	Loss

Feuilly was fiddling moodily with a broken fan.

The cause of his foul mood was, strangely enough, the leader of Les Amis, Enjolras. All day he has been acting inexplicably weird, absent and borderline hostile. Feuilly found a fascinating article about the economic and infrastructural reforms currently ongoing in Hungary but the man seemed outright disinterested, and didn’t even bother to be polite about it. He barely looked at Feuilly, and only reacted with small gestures and grunts. Eventually Feuilly gave up and went home, not even trying to show his article to anyone else.

He sighed, pulling up a book, trying to focus on something more pleasant. Of course one could expect rich, upper class men to be so dismissive of people like him, but Enjolras never has been, not before. And besides, they have gotten so close! When they first met, it took a while for Feuilly to open up to the man, to trust him – fearing exactly this sort of contempt and dismissal. But so far Enjolras has consistently treated him with respect and affection. What happened there? Did he do something? Did he unwittingly offend him somehow?

He huffed, willing himself to focus on the book.

Someone was knocking at the door. Feuilly stood up, putting his book down, shaking his head. Who could it be at such an ungodly hour?

It was Enjolras.

He stood in the doorway, eyes downcast, a letter in his hand. Wordlessly, he held it out to Feuilly. Feuilly took it and stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. Enjolras did, still silent.

Feuilly raised an eyebrow and quickly threw a glance out the open door. Thick fog was rolling on the narrow street. It seemed calm and deserted, but then it was hard to see anything in this weather. Enjolras must have had a good reason for keeping his silence – not even opening his mouth for a greeting.

Feuilly closed the door and bolted it for a good measure. He looked up at Enjolras.

‘Is it safe now? Can you talk?’

Enjolras shook his head.

Feuilly felt a lump of ice settling in his stomach. What on Earth was going on? Who could possibly overhear then in here, and how?

Enjolras gestured at the letter, visibly agitated now. Feuilly nodded, and opened it. It was in Enjolras’ own neat handwriting, if unusually shaky and blotchy.

_‘My dear Friend,_

_I must apologise for my behaviour this night. It was not my intention to ignore you and on any other day I would be happy to discuss the reforms currently underway at Pest._  
_The reason for my - seemingly perhaps stony – silence is simple if inexplicable. The ability of speech seems to be eluding me today. This strange temporary muteness plagues me from time to time, usually in times of great emotion, be it positive or negative. I suspect today it was caused by the news I received in the morning._  
_I sincerely apologise for the inconvenience it caused._

_Enjolras’_

‘Oh, Enjolras…’ Feuilly sighed, pulling him into a tight embrace ‘There’s no need to apologise, truly. I should have known something was up, it was wrong of me to judge you.’

He felt Enjolras shaking his head.

‘I mean it. I know you, Enjolras, you are not a man to brush off a friend. I know that.’

He gently led Enjolras to his bed. He sank down on it with a heavy sigh. Feuilly sat beside him, snaking an arm around his shoulders. Now that he thought about it, this wasn’t the first time he witnessed Enjolras losing his words, he just never thought much of it before.

Every now and then, when giving an exceptionally emotional speech, there came a point where Enjolras would struggle to get the words out or fall silent completely. Feuilly always thought of these instances as exaltation carrying Enjolras’ soaring spirit into heights where mere human words couldn’t follow. And as either Combeferre or Courfeyrac always immediately took over, he never dwelled on it for long.

But if on the positive end it was his prophetic flights of the soul that were able to choke him up like that, what terrible blow could have shocked him into silence now?

Feuilly reached for a scrapped sketch of a pamphlet – the only good thing about the tiny size of his room was being able to reach his table from his bed – flipped the paper over and gave it to Enjolras.

‘What happened? You needn’t tell me if you don’t want to, of course…’

Enjolras reached out for a pen – Feuilly quickly passed him one.

Enjolras stared down at the page for a long while. Feuilly was beginning to think he wasn’t going to answer, but at last Enjolras scribbled a few words and gave back both the pen and the paper, without looking up.

The words were sombre, clinical and concise.

 

_My father is dead._

 

Feuilly stared down at them, unable to react. Beside him, Enjolras was staring off into space with empty eyes. Feuilly didn’t know much about his father but one thing was certain: Enjolras adored the man.

Feuilly recalled vividly a visit to his friend’s lodgings. He was there to pick up a stack of pamphlets, fresh from the printer – he was meant to pass them along to some acquaintances. While Enjolras was packing up the lot Feuilly busied himself by admiring the small, framed portraits the other kept on the mantelpiece. They were mostly great philosophers and revolutionaries – Voltaire, Robespierre, and the like of them. Feuilly recognised them all – all, but one. It was a handsome, middle aged man with a tiny moustache and kind eyes. Vexed by this hole in his knowledge he called over Enjolras, enquiring about the portrait.

Enjolras laughed and told him not to beat himself up about not knowing the man – he was no great hero of the past, but his own father. He spoke of him softly, with love and pride in his eyes.

And that man was no more.

Feuilly was jolted out of his thoughts by a harsh sob. Beside him, Enjolras has doubled over. His face was buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Feuilly gently grabbed him and guided him down until his head was on Feuilly’s lap. That must have been the last straw – Enjolras broke down completely. Feuilly sat there, frozen, desperately trying to think of a way to console his friend as he was shaking and heaving, hysterically crying in his arms.

With trembling fingers, Feuilly reached down to brush Enjolras’ locks out of his face and to caress his shoulder, completely at loss. He was no stranger to grief – his own or others’ – but Enjolras has always been an unwavering pillar of strength in his eyes.

Enjolras convulsively fisted the fabric of Feuilly’s trousers, he was clinging to him as if his life depended on it. Feuilly bent forward, as if trying to wrap himself around his friend, futilely, hopelessly trying to protect him with his own body, trying to keep all the pain in the world away from him.

Enjolras has quieted down a bit. He was still crying, but softer now, and he was rocking a little bit. Feuilly took on the rhythm, cradling him.

They sat like that for a long while, Enjolras lying on his side, upper body in Feuilly’s arms, legs dangling off the bed. Finally, with obvious effort he gulped down his last tears and scrambled into an upright position. He shook his head, squeezed Feuilly’s shoulder and gestured towards the door.

Feuilly blinked – then quickly seized his hand.

‘No, don’t go! It’s late, the streets aren’t safe.’

Enjolras reached for the scrap of paper they used for communication. Feuilly gently grabbed his hand.

‘It is no trouble. You won’t disturb me, I promise. Please, Enjolras, stay with me. Stay safe.’

Enjolras raised his head. His hair was in disarray, beautiful face pale. For a long moment, he fixed his wet, red eyes on Feuilly… then slowly nodded and pulled Feuilly back into a soft embrace.

A lump rose suddenly in Feuilly’s throat. He dropped a kiss onto the messy, blond locks.

‘My sweet friend. Stay safe, stay warm. Stay with me.’


End file.
